


between the shadow and the soul

by phcbosz



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Blood and Violence, Canonical Character Death, Falling In Love, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Injuries, Past Child Abuse, Pre-Canon, Trans Martín Berrote, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:27:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25908085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phcbosz/pseuds/phcbosz
Summary: That's where it all starts, Andrés thinks. The way Martín smiles at him that day, the way Martín keeps smiling at him like that over the years, always like that, and only at Andrés.He is pretty sure, at this point, that's when he fell in love with Martín Berrote, hard and fast.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 15
Kudos: 58





	between the shadow and the soul

**Author's Note:**

> [this is the masterpiece that inspired this whole fic so go check it out !!](https://twitter.com/thorined/status/1293925311097139202?s=19)

The first time they meet, it's a rainy day, the streets smelling of earth, the sky clouded, no star to be seen in the night air.

Martín is wearing a blue shirt, and it brings out his eyes, beauty blue, but Andrés will forget that small detail one day. He doesn't know how he can, but he will forget.

Martín doesn't stand up when Andrés approaches him, sitting at the bar with his elbows resting on the counter, a cocktail in his hand, with umbrellas and fruits sticking out of it.

Sometimes, Martín will look at Andrés, and Andrés will remember so clearly, like it had happened just yesterday, the first time Martín looked at him.

The first time Martín looked at him. Eyes traveling up and down Andrés, before his lips stretched to a smirk, his tongue teasing the curious gap between his teeth.

It takes five minutes.

In five minutes, Martín explains the whole engineering side of the plan to him, how they will do even the simplest thing, not one detail missed, and Andrés remembers thinking _it's perfect._

He remembers thinking even though Martín thinks himself just an engineer, he is an artist as well.

"Martín Berrote," he says, tastes the shape of the name in his mouth, and Martín looks at him, lips curled up with the beginning of a smile. "I've been looking for you."

Then, Martín's eyebrows furrow, and the man blinks at him. Andrés understands Martín doesn't get it, Martín didn't feel the same thing he did, the instant connection, and he tells himself it's okay. He can make Martín feel it, all over himself, inside his bones, clinging to his skin, with time, he can help him realize what they are.

"My other half," he finishes, raising his glass with a smirk, and Martín looks deep into his eyes, a curious light hitting his face, and then--

And then, Martín smiles at him, and when Martín smiles, his face shifts, warps into something else, something even more beautiful than the poem he wrote that is their heist plan--

That's where it all starts, Andrés thinks. The way Martín smiles at him that day, the way Martín keeps smiling at him like that over the years, always like that, and only at Andrés.

He is pretty sure, at this point, that's when he fell in love with Martín Berrote, hard and fast.

*

Martín before a heist is full of life, bouncy. The man uses his hands as he explains something, sits up or even starts pacing around, accent thicker than ever, words so fast they are almost a slur, blending together.

Andrés seems himself in Martín. Being so in love with a plan you can barely keep still.

Martín after a successful heist is much more different.

His blue eyes are blown wide, a flush always on his cheeks, and he is calmer, somehow, can sit without bouncing his leg.

They go to a bar, to celebrate. Martín is looking around with wide eyes as soon as they sit down, searching for something--

He finds it fast enough. Throws Andrés a smirk, patting him on the shoulder as he gets up.

Then, Andrés watches as Martín walks towards a guy sitting at the bar, with the grace of a cat, sliding next to the stranger, and when the man looks up, his face is too close to Martín's for Andrés' liking.

Martín is good at sweet talk, apparently. It takes him just a minute, more or less, before the man gets up, all but running to the bathrooms, and Martín turns around just then, finds Andrés staring--and Andrés has been staring for a while hasn't he? He hadn't even noticed.

Martín winks at him. Andrés feels like he is burning inside out, his grip on the glass of whiskey in his hand tight, grounding.

He smirks, does his best to smirk, teeth gritted, jaw clenched.

Then, Martín is gone too, and Andrés thinks about him in a dirty bathroom stall, that guy's hands all over him, touching where they have no right to touch, touching what belongs to Andrés--

When Martín comes back, he is flushed even more, but his eyes have gone back to normal, his hands when he tries to fix his ruffled hair no longer shaking.

Martín doesn't say anything, just reaches for Andrés' whiskey on the table, downing it in one sip.

"Blerh," the man groans immediately, making a disgusted face. He has no taste, no taste at all, and Andrés hates him for thinking it's cute. "Jesus, I'm thirsty."

Martín sits down with a wince. Andrés' jaw hurts, it aches, yet he can't unclench it.

Martín notices, of course. "What's with the sour face?" He asks.

Andrés has to remind himself to not growl like he is a feral animal. "I just don't approve," he says with a shrug.

Martín's eyebrows raise up to his hairline, and the man chuckles, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, and Andrés tries not to think about the thin material of Martín's shirt hugging his arms, his wide shoulders; the way his legs are wide open, trying to assert dominance--

"Of course you don't," Martín says with a roll of his eyes, looking amused, but also angry, and Andrés realizes he has been misunderstood.

"Oh, no, Martín, please don't think me a bigot," he smiles, and Martín is looking at him again, looking into his eyes, and Andrés feels like Martín can see _everything._ "I believe that sex is another form of art. Not something to be practiced in…" he grimaces, "dirty bathroom stalls."

Martín looks at him for a second too long, unblinking, and Andrés feels exposed, seen--

Then, Martín smirks, looks away, Andrés feels like he can breathe again. "Sex is sex, Andrés," Martín replies, looking at the guy still sitting at the bar, licks his lips, "I'm not interested in _making love._ "

It's the way he says making love, like it's a curse. I could change your mind, Andrés finds himself thinking.

Thinking. Martín making love. His eyes would flutter shut so beautifully, his lips open in bliss, head thrown back, and when he opens his eyes again, forces himself to open them because he wants to look, he wants to see, they would be full of stars, full of love.

"I love you," Martín would say, and keep repeating it like a prayer, as he falls over the edge, "Andrés, Andrés, Andrés--"

"Andrés," Martín says, snapping his finger against Andrés' face, and Andrés comes back to himself abruptly. "You zoned out for a second."

Andrés shifts on his seat, suddenly realizing he has a problem, and sees that his glass has been refilled.

He throws it back in one sip, just like Martín had, and he must make a face, because Martín laughs, loud and uncontained, the adrenaline from the heist still running through their veins.

Martín has a beautiful laugh, and Andrés almost gets jealous thinking about how all the people in the bar get to hear it too, because they don't deserve it, but then--

But then: Martín, with that damn smile, looks at Andrés with something in his eyes Andrés can't describe, can't name, and Andrés relaxes.

He knows Martín won't look at the gentleman at the bar like that, he knows Martín won't look at anyone but Andrés like that--

That damn smile, it belongs to him.

He tries to tell himself that that's enough, but it never is, it never will be.

*

They travel the world together. They share rooms, they share beds, they drink coffee from the same cup. Martín and Andrés turn into _Andrés and Martín,_ their names always together, like it's meant to be.

And it is.

*

"Why did you agree to come with me to Germany?" Andrés asks one day.

They are wine drunk, the moon lazy in the sky, Martín laying down on the couch, legs stretched long and never-ending.

Martín blinks at him. "Why wouldn't I?" He asks, the beginning of a smile gracing his lips.

Sometimes, looking at Martín hurts. Especially when Martín looks away.

Martín looks away, then, shifting on the couch. Andrés realizes he must have been staring for too long, too intensely.

He doesn't look away, he can't.

Martín doesn't look at him. Stares at the ceiling.

Inside Andrés, there is a thunderstorm, blood like fire in his veins.

"You said it yourself," Martín says softly, then, like he is too afraid to disturb the calmness of the air around them. "We complete each other, you and I."

Andrés takes a sip of his wine, but he can't taste it.

Martín stares at the ceiling for a long time.

Andrés knows it's because the man is too afraid to look at him.

They both know what they will see in each other's eyes, they both know how it will go, then.

This is an old story, and they both know how it will end.

Someday in the future, Andrés will look back to that day, remember the way Martín's hands were shaking, remember the longing stare Martín threw at him, just for a second, before he speed walked to his room, running away from Andrés, running away from something much bigger than the both of them combined.

He will almost laugh. He will almost choke.

Who did they think they were, really?

To think they would be able to hold a candle and a match not even an inch apart, and stop them from burning together?

He will almost laugh. But it really is not that funny.

*

The first time he sees Martín shirtless is after a year of their meeting.

Martín is very particular about that kind of stuff, Andrés has noticed. Never taking his shirt off around Andrés like he has something to hide--

The day Andrés sees him shirtless, he gets it.

Every man has something to hide, after all. He just never thought Martín's would be this.

Martín is laying on his stomach on the bed, arms under his pillow.

Martín looks younger.

He looks like everything Andrés wants to wake up to, but never will.

Martín has scars. On his back like trees, like a whole forest.

Andrés knows that only one thing could have caused scars like that. He now knows what Martín doesn't want him to see.

Martín is stupid, sometimes, for such a brilliant man.

Andrés only loves him more, seeing the struggles he has gone through only to come out alive and stronger.

He is the most beautiful peace of art Andrés has ever seen.

Then, it feels disrespectful, just slipping out of the room like nothing happened.

Plus, Andrés already has a cup of coffee in his hand that's going cold.

He puts it on the nightstand. "Martín," he says, and his heart clenches at the way Martín's eyelashes flutter, brows furrowing.

When Martín blinks his eyes open, and raises his head, looking at Andrés with his hair ruined, and brain clouded with sleep, Andrés' hands ache for his sketchbook, for the need to put the image down on to paper, so it can live longer, even after they perish.

"Andrés?" Martín all but slurs, rolling onto his back and stretching.

Andrés tries not to stare, but not really. He watches every one of Martín's muscles work, his eyes hungry and hooded.

It's 6 in the morning, and Andrés has already started the day unable to take his eyes off Martín.

"I brought you coffee," he says, and his voice is just a little hoarse, "we need to leave in an hour or we'll be late."

Martín groans, putting an arm over his eyes. "Why did you wake me?" He whines. "I can get ready in ten minutes easily."

Andrés knows he can. The trick is Martín drinks his coffee like he is doing a shot, brushes his teeth in the shower, and puts his pants on in the car.

"Yes, you can," he agrees, "but I need you to look at least a little presentable today."

Martín lowers his arm. He must be realizing just then that he is shirtless, the sheets pooled around his legs doing nothing to hide his skin, the things carved into it.

Martín has scars on his chest, too. Andrés looks at them, eyes flickering, between Martín's chest and then his face.

The scars are old, of course. Nobody would even notice them at first glance.

Andrés notices, of course. Because he is looking to see, as is always the case when it comes to Martín.

Martín notices him noticing. His body is stiff now, the worry lines on his face are back, making him look older than he is.

Andrés wants to run his fingers through Martín's hair. He wants to tell the man to never be ashamed of who he is, he wants to kiss Martín and have the man respond lazily, still relaxed from his sleep, he wants to get under the covers with Martín, screw their plans, because having the man in his arms is more important than anything.

In a perfect world, that's how the morning goes.

This is a world where loving someone and them loving you back isn't enough, even though it should be.

"Coffee," he says, looking at the nightstand.

Martín gets up onto a sitting position, reaching for the cup. His hands are just a little bit shaky.

Andrés clenches his own into fists.

He wants to stay in that room forever, _he wants to stay._

That's exactly why he leaves.

*

Sergio doesn't like Martín. Doesn't like the way Martín looks at Andrés.

Andrés almost laughs. Sometimes Martín will look at him a little too hungrily, true, sometimes he will run his eyes up and down Andrés like he is undressing him, sometimes he will bite his lip before forcing himself to look away.

Martín thinks Andrés is attractive.

Andrés is _in love_ with Martín.

Sergio isn't as smart as he thinks, after all, because he can't see the way Andrés looks back, every time Martín looks at him.

*

One day, Martín comes home, _their home_ , drunk and covered in blood.

Andrés is on his feet immediately, but he physically stops himself from rushing to Martín like a mother hen.

"What happened?" He asks instead, trying to see how severe the damage actually is.

Martín has his back to the door like he can't quite stand up. His head is thrown back, exposing his neck, his face a bloody mess covered in bruises. His nose is still bleeding.

Andrés doesn't know what other bruises Martín is hiding behind his shirt like he doesn't know what hurt Martín is hiding behind his chest.

Martín all but falls to the floor.

Andrés remembers something breaking in his mind, like when you pull on an elastic band for too much, for too long, and it snaps, probably hits your face, the pain too sharp and too sudden for you to even realize what happened.

He feels something _snap._

"Martín," he calls out, doesn't even care about the raw concern that slips into his voice, doesn't even care that he has never felt like this for any person other than Sergio before.

He is by Martín's side in just a second.

He falls down to his knees, he doesn't even care.

Martín opens his eyes lazily, looking at him with confusion. "Andrés," he slurs, his breath smelling heavily of alcohol. Andrés can't quite tell if Martín is just slurring because of the alcohol though.

He takes Martín's face in his hands, caressing the man's cheek with his thumb. "We need to get you to a hospital, cariño," he says, the pet name slipping out of him like a cough you have been trying to keep in for a while.

"No," Martín objects, closing his eyes again, "I will bleed all over the car seats."

"I don't care," Andrés replies.

Maybe there's something in his voice, then. Maybe it just has been building for too long, this thing between them, and that's where the water spills like you're trying to fill a glass that's already full; but Martín's eyes pop open, and he looks at Andrés with pupils dilated, looking more sober than he did a second ago.

Andrés lets Martín look, drink him in, and he all but shivers when Martín's eyes flicker to his lips for just a millisecond before the man looks away, looks disgusted, looks ashamed.

Andrés wants to lean forward, close the distance between them himself, he wants to kiss Martín stupid until the man understands everything Andrés has been trying to say--he wants to kiss Martín until they invent a language with their lips--

He can't.

He gets Martín up and into the car. Drives him to the hospital.

Martín has a cracked rib, a lot of bruises, and a concussion. No matter how much he asks, Martín won't tell him who did it, just brushes off the question with a bullshit answer like _some assholes from the bar._

In the future, Andrés looks back. He thinks that might be the moment Martín Berrote fell in love with him, with his face in Andrés' hands, looking up into his eyes only to see the worry, the concern, the love that Andrés has tried to keep hidden.

No matter how hard he tries, he can't remember what day it was, the date.

He feels like he should. He can't. A part of him forever missing.

*

Then, Andrés gets married. It's not the first, and it won't be the last.

During the wedding, Martín is dancing around, having fun, even flirting with Ivan, but there is always a drink in his hand, he drinks like it's the end of the world, and it must feel that way, to him, at least.

Andrés tries to imagine Martín getting married. He tries to imagine watching Martín kiss a man that isn't him, look up at them with complete love in his eyes, and he feels a little sick, a lot like throwing up.

He knows it's not fair. Andrés is a coward. He knows all he should want is for Martín to be happy.

And he does want that. He wants Martín to be happy, of course he does.

He just thinks he wouldn't attend the wedding. So what? He never claimed to be as brave as Martín.

The thing is, Andrés loves Maria, he truly does. He just doesn't love her as much as he loves Martín.

He doesn't think he will ever love anyone like that.

Martín is the other piece of the puzzle Andrés is, completing him. Martín is a match, the only one able to light the candle Andrés is.

Martín is his soulmate.

And he knows he won't find anyone else like that.

Sometimes Andrés hates Martín for doing this to him, for ruining his life like this, because it's not fair, it's not fair that they could be the most beautiful poem together, but Andrés can never find the last word that will complete it, he can never make it rhyme in the end.

He kisses Maria, as passionately as he can. He knows Martín is watching. Martín always is.

Maybe he is trying to punish Martín.

It feels more like he is punishing himself.

*

It doesn't work out, in the end. Just another divorce, just another hazy memory in the past.

Andrés can't even find it in himself to be surprised, really. He knew it wouldn't last before it even started.

He knows nothing will last, because his heart belongs to someone else, and Martín is too big, there is no room for anyone to fit beside him.

Sometimes, he gets too lonely, and he dreams.

In his dreams, they are together, and nothing else matters to them.

In his dreams, he is brave.

In his dreams, he kisses Martín, but when he wakes up, he finds himself forgetting how it felt, he finds himself trying to remember desperately, but he never can.

It's unfair.

Sometimes, he mouths Martín's name at night, just to himself, just to feel a piece of Martín against his lips.

He spends the night wide awake, trying to convince himself it's enough, and he can live like this.

*

Martín starts dating someone. Miguel. He is younger than Martín by a few years, but taller than him. He has light brown hair and green eyes.

Andrés knows what Martín is doing. He tried it out himself, not too long ago, and ended up with another divorce on his tab.

When Miguel is around, Andrés always has a sour taste in his mouth.

Martín can tell Andrés doesn't like Miguel. He just doesn't know why.

One day, Martín confronts Andrés about it. 

"What's your problem with Miguel?" Martín asks, trying to look angry, but there is that little bit of fear in it. After all these years, Martín is still scared he will say the wrong thing and make Andrés leave.

"He's an idiot," Andrés says simply.

He doesn't deserve you, he almost adds. Has to bite his tongue to keep it in.

What if Martín asks _who deserves me, then?_ What if it's another snap, and everything comes rushing out of Andrés?

He chews on the inside of his cheek.

Martín scoffs. "So was Maria," he replies, juts his chin out like it's a challenge.

Andrés laughs. "And that's why we are divorced now." He doesn't mind Martín like this, he finds. He actually likes it.

Martín rolls his eyes, crosses his arms over his chest, and suddenly Andrés is remembering that day at the bar.

He can't remember what happened exactly. He just remembers Martín looking at him like this, he remembers the thrill it shot up his spine, lighting his whole body on fire.

"You were married to her for months, Andrés," Martín is saying, and Andrés takes a sip of his whiskey, lets it burn his mouth, his throat, let's it _hurt._

"Which is why I'm putting up with Miguel," Andrés shrugs, "but after a 'few months' I want him gone."

Martín stands up suddenly. There is a sour expression on his face, and Andrés doesn't like the fact that it's directed at him.

"You're a fucking asshole."

Andrés doesn't watch Martín leave.

At night, he can hear Martín and Miguel. He thinks Martín is being purposefully loud, as a punishment just for Andrés, like a present wrapped all nice and smooth, but you open the box to find it empty.

Andrés lays awake the whole night.

In the morning, his jaw aches, and he has a headache.

When Martín walks into the kitchen he isn't wearing anything but his boxers. He is covered in bruises and hickeys.

Andrés doesn't look, doesn't say good morning, Martín doesn't seem to care, getting two cups of coffee and leaving just like he came in, with his head held high, and jaw clenched.

After a month, Martín breaks up with the idiot.

The things Miguel got to do with Martín still haunt Andrés, even though he knows he has no right.

When he looks into Martín's blue eyes, and wants to drown in them, he has to remind himself.

When Martín steps too close to him, fixing his tie, and they are both smirking, and Andrés desperately wants to lean forward, close the distance between them, he has to remind himself.

When they share coffee from the same mug, and he drinks from the exact same spot as Martín to feel the man against his lips, he has to remind himself.

I have no right, I have no right, I have no right--

"I told you he was an idiot," Andrés says, after Miguel leaves, and it's the wrong thing to say.

Martín looks at him with a sneer, a look of disgust in his eyes. His arms are crossed in front of his chest, but nothing like the arrogant way Andrés has seen before. Martín looks like he is hugging himself.

His eyes are teary, and he looks at Andrés like he wants to spit on his face, follow Miguel's footsteps and leave.

Martín doesn't do any of those things. He just sniffs, chin trembling, and goes to his room, locking the door.

Andrés knows what Martín is thinking.

The way they have ruined each other for people, and the way they can never have anyone else again.

He has been there himself.

The difference is, Martín comforted Andrés through it.

Andrés only sees Martín burning and adds fuel to the fire.

The difference is, Martín is brave, and Andrés is a coward.

_He was an idiot anyway and he never deserved you_ , was what he meant to say, but he choked on it.

Martín isn't really himself for a week. Andrés mostly leaves him alone.

Martín gets over it all by himself, comes back to Andrés like an abused dog returns home.

Andrés wants to take him in his arms, hug him tight, press him so close to his chest that they become one body, two souls and two brains intertwined.

He can't.

Sometimes, when he reaches out to touch Martín, his hands are too shaky and he has to pull back.

*

The thing is, Andrés misses Martín everyday, even when he is right in front of him.

He misses the man underneath his fingertips, reaches out to touch, because he can do that, even if Martín always ends up pulling back, even if Martín sometimes gets this look in his eyes; like he is looking at a feast, a starved man.

Andrés understands.

The thing is, Andrés misses the taste of Martín's lips. He has never kissed Martín. He didn't know it was possible to miss something you never had in the first place. Yet he does. Yet he does, everyday.

One day, he will run his fingers over his lips, knowing Martín's own touched them just minutes ago.

One day, he will have dinner with Tatiana, try not to think about Martín, think about him every second all the same, like drinking a full bottle of water without taking a breath, just because you are too thirsty to stop, just because you would rather suffocate to death before you stopped drinking.

One morning, he will imagine knocking on Martín's door. How Martín's voice would be lazy, ruined by sleep, as he asked, "who's there?" How when he opened the door he would freeze, how he would curse at Andrés, kick him out, tell him he never wants to see him again, yet still kiss him breathless a few minutes after that, yet still kiss Andrés too much for too long, until they both burn, like a forest fire that can never be contained.

Andrés will dream about burning, one day.

"Who's there?" He will imagine Martín saying, voice lazy, ruined by sleep. "Andrés?" He will imagine Martín saying.

One day, he will regret leaving.

He still won't go back.

*

They have their happy days too, of course. Actually, mostly they are happy; like a long car ride, sometimes you go by potholes, but it doesn't stop you from driving.

They have their happy days, but never truly one hundred percent.

They touch each other, on the waist, back, hand, wrist, top of the arm, neck, one time Andrés even caresses Martín's cheek.

They look at each other, unblinking, and Andrés licks his lips, sees Martín force himself not to do the same; sometimes they look at each other and it feels like they are kissing.

They still find themselves back home, even if sometimes someone leaves, they always come back.

One day, Andrés won't.

He will look back, and only remember the times he couldn't touch Martín.

He will remember the times Martín avoided his eyes, avoided their kiss.

He will go through his sketchbooks, and not see the man he is in love with, (lying stretched out on the grass, or in a bar with a wine glass in his hand, or just looking at Andrés through the page, that damn smile on his lips) Andrés will only see the man he wanted but couldn't have.

He will only remember their sad days.

He will hate himself for ruining their story, for tainting their memories.

He will shudder, thinking of how Martín must remember him.

Late at night, he will wonder if Martín still thinks of him at all.

*

The day Andrés meets Tatiana, Martín is there with him.

Martín sits at the table with them, smiles at Tatiana, makes jokes, laughs when he is supposed to, quiet when someone else is speaking.

Martín sits at the table with them, his eyes hazy, like there is a fog in front of them. Andrés looks at him, can't see the man he loves, he sees a shell, empty inside, like someone stole Martín's body, took out his soul, filled him with cotton to the brim.

Martín avoids looking at him, mostly. But when Martín looks at him, he really looks. He looks at Andrés like someone would look at a car crash.

Their love is a highway, it's like crashing your car, over and over again.

The day Andrés meets Tatiana, Martín is there.

Martín is always there.

But he never really is.

*

Tatiana is lovely. She has the fingers of an artist, but also of a thief's.

She reminds Andrés of Martín. Most everything does, really.

The first time they have dinner alone, Tatiana asks about him.

Andrés doesn't know how to explain Martín with a few words, he wouldn't fit it into a notebook if he tried, he would fill every page, he would run out of ink, and it wouldn't be enough, it would never be enough because it's _Martín._

He is my other half. My soul. My _soulmate._

He doesn't say any of that.

"Martín is my best friend," he says in the end, simple as that. "My partner in crime."

Tatiana looks at him, a curious light in her eyes, before she looks down, picks up her glass and takes a sip.

The rest of the evening is as pleasant as it can be.

Tatiana doesn't mention Martín again.

They both avoid the subject like it's a minefield, and it is. One wrong step, and you will be blown up to pieces. Martín is a minefield, to Andrés.

Martín is a dance Andrés doesn't know the steps to, he keeps stepping on his partners toes, feeling flushed, out of breath.

Loving Martín is like constantly missing the last step of the stairs, the adrenaline, the sudden fear of not knowing where you are going, where you will be in the end, and the realization when you don't fall down, the shame of letting such a small thing scare you like that.

My best friend, my partner in crime, Andrés thinks.

Sure, Martín are those things. But Martín is also so much more than that.

Andrés would explain, if he had the time, but he doesn't have forever, and explaining Martín would take him decades.

Tatiana doesn't bring up Martín again. She never brings up Martín, ever again.

*

They still keep going, forward, always forward, because they can never go back.

Andrés isn't a sentimental man. But if he could, he'd walk through life backwards, all their memories, all the days they've carved into their brain, somewhere in the world, everywhere in the world all at the same time, Martín always behind him, Martín always with him, Martín and Andrés.

The first time Martín smiled at him like _that._

The first time Martín was the one to initiate touch, running a gentle hand through Andrés' waist as he walked past.

The first time they had to run home to escape from the rain.

The first time they went to sleep, both in the living room, all but melting to the floor, because the sun was too mean.

The first time Martín got so drunk around Andrés that he admitted how he didn't like losing control like this, how it scared him.

The first time Martín told Andrés _I trust you with my life,_ without saying it.

The first time Martín saved Andrés' life.

The first time Andrés saved his.

The first time he found Martín on the floor, with his arms around himself, his head buried between his knees, shaking, too scared to even open his eyes, until Andrés touched him, gently, until Andrés spoke to him, caressed his hair.

The first time Martín looked at him with so much love in his eyes that it left Andrés breathless.

The first time Martín fell apart in his arms like a glass shattering, and the man told him, _I don't know how to put it all back together again._ It will never be the same.

Andrés wants it back, all of it, the pain, the regret, the yearning, the laughter, the trust, the love; he wants it all back, _all of it,_ he wants to move back in time if it means he will have a few more years with Martín, _a few more seconds_ , even, because he is dying, and somehow what bothers him the most is he will never have any of that, ever again; death doesn't bother him as much as losing Martín will--

It's impossible to go back, of course.

It's just--

Martín doesn't smile at him like that anymore.

Andrés wants to see that smile one more time before he goes away, please.

Please, he almost begs Martín, but the word always get stuck in his throat, never leave his trembling lips. 

*

Andrés gets married to Tatiana. Martín says she will be the lucky number 5, the last.

He smiles as he says it. Andrés smiles back. Everyone smiles, everywhere, and they are all pretending to be okay.

It's not really okay. Nothing is.

It's a beautiful ceremony all the same. The whole time, Andrés is imagining Martín in his arms, how he would spin him around until they are both dizzy, and then pull him in, Martín would crash against him, and he would be laughing, free, uncontained, and they would sway around as they kissed--

He wonders if Martín is thinking the same thing.

In another world, Martín would be the lucky number 5, the last.

He isn't, in this one.

Everybody dances, everybody has fun. Martín is bouncing all around, a ball of joy.

Andrés knows at night, Martín lays awake, blinks back tears, staring at the ceiling. Andrés has been there himself.

Even Sergio dances with them. It's a happy moment for sure. One to look back on with a smile.

Andrés will never look back on this with a smile, though. He will only remember how much he wanted to be getting married to Martín, how he couldn't, how he had to watch as Martín joked around with Tatiana, eyes hazy and teary with pain.

Martín looks truly happy, to anyone who isn't Andrés, to anyone who looks, but not sees. 

Andrés knows he looks happy too. The happiest.

They are both just trying to get through the day.

Martín gets some help from alcohol.

Martín drinks to get drunk and he does. Then he crashes, hard and fast.

Andrés is on his way to his room when he sees Ivan dragging Martín somewhere.

Martín is obviously too drunk to even walk, clinging to Ivan, but it doesn't feel like he is doing it just so he doesn't fall down.

"What are you doing?" Andrés asks, a sour taste in his mouth. "He's obviously too drunk."

Ivan looks at him, face hardening under the small ray of light illuminating the hallway. "That's what I told him when he tried to kiss me," Ivan says, sounding offended Andrés would even assume he would take advantage of Martín like that, which is fair. "Not like I'm interested in sex at all anyway."

Right. Andrés remembers Ivan mentioning that before.

They stand there for a second too long. Martín looks almost asleep, his face mashed against Ivan's arm, eyes closed.

"You should go to your wife, Andrés," Ivan says then, breaking the silence, "I've got him."

Ivan probably knows, then. Something in the way he said _your wife,_ like he judges Andrés for having one.

It's okay. Andrés also judges himself.

As Ivan leaves, he stands in the hallway, staring straight ahead, trying not to think at all.

He can't stop thinking, though.

He thinks about how he should be the one dragging Martín to bed, telling him, _shh, calm down, cariño,_ as Martín tries kissing his neck, chuckling.

He imagines pushing Martín on the bed, the man laying down, and stretching without a worry in the world, the way only drunk people or children can.

He imagines taking Martín's shoes off, as the man slurs something to him; he imagines laughing.

He imagines getting into bed with Martín, pulling the man close to his chest, forehead to forehead, he imagines Martín melting into him like sugar dissolving in tea, until they are one thing, something you can never separate again.

He imagines them waking up in the morning, tangled together like vines, he imagines Martín's eyelashes fluttering open, and then, Martín would smile at him, that smile that belongs to Andrés, and they would have morning breath, Martín would have a hangover, but they would kiss, and everything would be perfect--

In the morning, Martín will wake up with a hole in his chest, a pounding headache that makes it hard to even blink. Martín will blink all the same, trying to keep the tears in.

In the morning, Martín will come into the kitchen to see Andrés and Tatiana sitting together, enjoying their first morning as a married couple, and he will say good morning. He will sit and have breakfast with them.

In the morning, Martín will go to the shower, fall down to the floor crying, and he will hug himself, he will imagine it's Andrés who is hugging him, turn the water cold, hot, then cold again, just to feel something.

In that moment, Andrés wishes he could take it all back. He doesn't know if he would, though, if he had the power.

He goes to his wife, and doesn't think about Martín ever again the whole night and morning.

*

Tatiana sighs, immediately cuddling close to him when he gets in the bed. The moonlight through the window is the only source of light in the room, painting everything black, white, and grey.

"Where were you?" She asks, sleep hazy.

"With Martín," Andrés replies. He finds that he isn't that sleepy, but he just needed an excuse to leave the room and going to bed seemed like a good one.

The thing is, they had been in that room for hours on end, sitting on the couch, and they kept getting closer, without even noticing it, until Martín's knee brushed against his, until Andrés realized their shoulders are touching.

Then he looked up from the plans laid out on the table, to find Martín already staring at him, something dangerous in his expression, like he is about to go out into the minefield, run through it, risk everything, just to reach to the other side.

On the other side: Andrés.

He wanted to say, _run, Martín._ Run, and I will welcome you with open arms.

He wanted to say, _come on, then._ Kiss me.

He wanted to say, _we both have been waiting long enough,_ too long, actually.

He wanted to say, _sorry I've been such a coward._

He didn't want to say anything, just kiss Martín until the man understands all of it, and they wouldn't need words, after that. They would have another language they speak, only with their lips against each other, breathless and burning.

Andrés got up. Maybe too suddenly.

Martín looked startled, then he looked away.

Andrés made his excuses, and now here he is, in bed with his wife, where he belongs, where he is supposed to feel at home.

Tatiana sighs. "You spend more time with him than you do with me," she says with a small giggle.

But then she freezes, realizing what she just said.

Underneath her, Andrés is also stiff with tension.

He opens his mouth, closes it.

They both know what Tatiana actually meant.

They both ignore it.

Andrés lays sleepless the whole night. It's getting tiring, ignoring everything, it's getting tiring.

He is bone deep exhausted at this point, and not even sleeping for a week could ease it.

*

"What?" Andrés asks, smiling. "Now what's wrong with Martín?"

Sergio turns to him, pushes his glasses up his nose. "He follows you everywhere."

Andrés almost laughs.

It's true. Martín follows him everywhere. Andrés knows Martín would follow him to the end of the world, only if he asked.

The thing is, Andrés would never ask. The thing is, Andrés wants to, but he never will.

"So?" He asks, smirking. It feels foreign on his lips. He knows where this conversation is going, and he physically wants to shut Sergio up, press a hand against the man's mouth, so he can never say the words Andrés is dreading.

"He's in love with you," Sergio says, and Andrés feels like the air has been punched out of him, the sentence echoing inside his empty mind like a prayer, coming from miles away.

He throws his head back, laughing. He doesn't know what he says, really. No matter what, he can't remember what he said.

Sergio interrupts him, somewhere along the way. "And you're in love with him, Andrés," the man says, "do you really think you can go inside the Mint and do your job effectively? What if one of you gets hurt? What if Martín argues with you as he always does and you're too love blind to see the problem?"

Sergio says a lot of things. How together, they are dangerous, a bomb with the trigger pulled, ready to explode, how putting them in the Mint together would end in disastrous ways.

He isn't saying anything Andrés doesn't already know. Andrés is still clenching his jaw, the grip on his glass so tight that his knuckles hurt.

See, Andrés knew from the first day. Five minutes in, and he knew.

He tries to remember the way Martín smiled at him that day. He doesn't need to try hard. He can never forget it.

He tries to remember what Martín was wearing, where he was sitting, what his first words to Andrés were, he can't.

No matter how hard he tries, he can't. It feels disrespectful, to forget.

Andrés wants to forget all of Martín all the same.

Then, Martín is there, in front of him, taking his bowtie and tying it on for him like it's second nature, and it is, it is, at this point, they exist together, never apart, _Andrés and Martín--_

Andrés hasn't left yet. He doesn't know how he is going to leave.

He knows he will leave, though. He knew from the beginning.

*

Andrés will call Martín. One day before the heist, sitting outside in the cold night air.

He will be smoking. Picking up the phone with shaking hands, he will dial the number he can never forget.

He will inhale. He won't exhale the whole time the line rings.

"Hello?" Martín will say. His voice will be low and hoarse. Andrés will imagine him laying in his bed, eyes still closed because he is too lazy to open them; Martín will be running his hands through his hair, rubbing at his eyes. "Hello?"

Andrés will listen, without even taking a breath. "Fucking asshole," Martín will say.

The line will go dead.

Andrés' eyes will be burning. He will be burning all over again.

He will go into the Mint. He will die in there.

Martín's last words to him will be _fucking asshole._

Andrés will die, fast and quick, and it will feel a lot like burning.

*

"Andrés?" Martín asks, standing up, hesitant.

They are in the room where they have planned countless heists, where they have spent many nights awake, lost in each other, lost in themselves.

"Have you been drinking?" Martín asks him, smiling. "You look wasted."

Andrés waves a hand, unconcerned. "I had a few glasses of wine," he replies, walking towards the music player they have in the room. "Nothing a good sleep can't fix."

The thing is, Andrés doesn't want to go to sleep. He wants the night to stretch on forever, he wants to stay in the room where he can finally get what he wants, get his hands on Martín, he doesn't want to go to sleep because he will wake up in the morning, and then the morning will bleed into the night, and then Andrés will say goodbye to Martín, he will leave.

Andrés wants to stay.

"You should sleep, then," Martín sounds amused, standing up with his arms crossed over his chest, looking at Andrés with a smirk on his lips, eyebrows raised.

Andrés will never get to see him like this again.

What else can he do but dance?

"Come on," he says, dancing his way to Martín, making the man chuckle, roll his eyes. "Dance with me, Martín."

"I don't have enough alcohol in me for that," Martín replies.

Andrés grips the man's wrists, pulls him into himself, and Martín is stiff under his hands, solid.

"Come on," he says. He almost begs.

He doesn't need to. Martín always has a hard time saying no to him anyway.

"Okay, okay," Martín says, pulling back from Andrés a little.

He looks shocked when Andrés puts his hands on his waist, taking the leading position.

"Oh," Martín breathes out, small and quiet. He puts his hands on Andrés' shoulders, just because he doesn't know what else to do with them.

Andrés hums under his breath as he spins them around the room, and Martín is only looking over Andrés' shoulder, never looking at Andrés, and that is simply unacceptable.

"Martín," Andrés says, waits for the man to turn to him, slow, like he doesn't want to, or like he can't.

When Martín swallows, Andrés can almost feel it.

Blue meets brown, and their souls blend together, they bleed into each other like paint.

The moment their eyes meet, Martín looks ready to risk everything.

Andrés knows he would risk everything for Martín as well. But he can't.

The ring on his finger feels even heavier than the air in the room, and when he forces himself to inhale, his chest rises up, brushes against Martín's.

Their steps have gotten slower, now, the song playing muffled behind the sound of their hearts beating against each other.

"Martín," Andrés says, he wants to keep saying it, like a prayer, this room is their church anyway--

"Thank you for dancing with me."

He pulls back.

He turns the music off before he leaves, feels Martín stare at his back until he disappears from view.

He tries to pretend he doesn't know Martín is fighting back tears, he tries to pretend his eyes aren't burning as well.

They've had a good dance, at least. But everything must come to an end, some day.

*

Martín is sitting at the table, writing in his notebook. Normally, Andrés would sit down, watch Martín with his sketchbook in his hand, and he would draw, the only thing he never gets sick of drawing.

Martín would look up, a few minutes in, brows furrowing. His eyes would clear when he sees Andrés, he would blush, he would smile at Andrés, smile just like that first day they met, and when he went back to his work, there would still be the traces of a smile on his lips, like he is trying to hold back but can't quite manage it.

Today is not one of those days. They will never have one of those days again.

"How do I look?" Andrés asks, and he is stalling. He wants to freeze time, just like yesterday, he wants to stand there forever, just watch Martín sitting at the table, too focused on work to even care about Andrés lingering, too used to Andrés staring at him like he is looking inside Martín, like Andrés can see everything he hides hidden behind his chest.

Then, it's Martín looking up, and it's Andrés feeling like he is not in the room anymore, it's Andrés feeling like he has time travelled, to some place too far away.

Martín looks up, and Andrés can see it.

Martín looking up at him like that, many years ago. He can see that Martín, in front of him, it looks so real, like he can reach out, touch, feel it solid underneath his fingertips.

He remembers now. He remembers the blue shirt Martín was wearing. He remembers him sitting at the bar, with his elbows on the counter.

He remembers Martín looking him up and down, smirking. "Hello, handsome," he remembers Martín saying.

He can't believe he forgot that, his heart aches, it burns, he just wants to go back; he feels out of breath, like his lungs are filled with water to the brim.

Andrés always feels breathless, when Martín looks at him like that.

"Powerful," Martín says, Martín smiles, "beautiful," Martín says. His smile is lopsided, though, not the one from the past, not the one that hurts Andrés every time he remembers it.

Martín doesn't smile like that anymore. His smiles are always broken, something missing in his lips, his eyes. Andrés wants to go back.

But it's impossible, now. They keep moving forward, no matter how hard Andrés tries to close his eyes, and wake up in the past, that first day they met.

They keep going forward, and Andrés knows, there is no going back, there is nothing left to do now but walk faster so he can get through the hardest part, at least.

Martín looks away, pulls away from their gaze like it's a physical thing, and Andrés can feel the man separating them like separating two pieces of cloth glued together, ripping it off, damaging it forever.

Sometimes, Andrés dreams of gripping Martín's face and making the man look at him, look until he sees, until he understands, he wants to grip Martín's shoulders and shake him wildly, yell at him to stop being so blind--

Sometimes, Andrés dreams of drinking Martín through a straw, and always wakes up, craving the man like someone stranded in a desert craves water again.

Andrés has to leave, he knows. One of them has to, before they destroy each other.

Then, as the conversation goes on, Martín understands where they are going, just where they are headed.

They both know, what it means, what will happen next.

They both know how this story will end. Andrés has known for years, now. Martín only a few minutes.

Martín tries to stall, just like Andrés. He tries to avoid the inevitable, like a sick man tries to avoid his death, knowing it will come and hit him like a freight train all the same, no matter what he does, you can't run away from something that is inside of you, that has claimed its place inside your skin.

Andrés doesn't lie to Martín. He never has, he never will.

It's expected, that Martín fights back, that Martín doesn't just take it lying down, let Andrés leave without even trying something to make him stay.

The unexpected is Martín kisses him. The unexpected is Martín feeds his desire to Andrés with his tongue, lets his love flow between them like water, and with every second, he is trying to tell Andrés something.

With every second, Andrés feels like they are inventing a language only they can speak, a language they can only speak with their lips against each other's like this. Martín is speaking to him, without saying anything at all.

_I love you,_ Andrés thinks.

_I love you and I don't know how I will live without this now that I know what it feels like to have everything I've ever wanted,_ he thinks. I know I won't live very long anyway.

_It should be enough,_ he thinks, to love someone, and for them to love you back.

It isn't.

When he pulls away, Martín is crying.

Andrés pulls his hands back slowly, not quite ready to stop touching Martín, because this will be the last time he ever touches the man, he tries to commit to memory the way Martín looks, but it hurts to see him this way, crying and slumped down, Andrés wants to remember the Martín he met years ago, the one who always bounced from one spot to another, laughed free and uncontained--

That Martín is gone, now. Andrés has killed him.

In a perfect world, Andrés stays. In a perfect world, they deserve each other. In a perfect world, they make it work.

Not this one.

In this one, Andrés leaves, without even looking back.

It's because if he looks, he might stay.

He knows Martín is thinking it's because Andrés doesn't want him the way he wants Andrés, and it's funny, how stupid the man can be.

The joke is, Andrés doesn't feel like laughing.

fin.

**Author's Note:**

> im not linking my twt pls dont perceive me i actually hate this sooo much 😭😭 truly my worst work ❤️


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